Ten minutes into the Rolling Stones Hyde Park anniversary concert, a middle-aged woman on crutches battled her way out of the crowd and collapsed in a chair in the disabled section. Sweat dripping down her face, she looked as if she was in pain but there was also a flash of triumph in her eyes - even though it had nearly killed her, it was worth it to stand up for a moment in the presence of her idols while they tore through Start Me Up.

Fifty years after they began, what is amazing about the Rolling Stones is not only that this fractious band are still together, but that they can still generate such enormous amounts of emotion, be it love or hatred.

Going on the sharply divided opinions on their first appearance at Glastonbury last weekend, the Stones, well into their golden years, could still start a riot in a Buddhist monastery. Festival-goers claimed it was the show of a lifetime. For those at home, myself included, it was an oddly distant, over-slick piece of rock n’roll theatre.

But in the flesh, oh what magnificent, ridiculous, celebratory theatre it is. Forty-four years on from their landmark free concert, where thousands of fans, many high as a kite, were practically crawling onto the stage, Hyde Park seemed as if it had gone back in time to the Medieval era.

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The Barclaycard British Summertime festival ruthlessly divided the plebs from the celebs, with tiers within tiers for the rich and famous, offering them luxury restaurants, afternoon tea and carpeted toilets. While the plebs still had to part with a serious amount of cash to get in, the sun took it upon itself to democratically shine down on all.

Mick Jagger looked delighted. “There’s nowhere better in the summertime,” he declared - and the entire show was a carnival of nostalgia and idealism, of what we dream of summer and what good time rock and roll sounds like.

Jagger was also delighted by his stage set, a tangle of plastic oak trees curving around the giant screens. Whereas on TV Jagger had looked like a lonely, skinny marionette charging up and down the stage until his batteries gave up, blown up and projected five times in the round made the whole band look like Greek gods leering down at their audience.

Armchair critics were most scathing aboutthe decrepitude of the band’s looks. But in the flesh Jagger’s demented jerking or Keith Richards' snarling, arthritic lurch appeared strangely heroic. Looking unashamedly old in a culture obsessed with youth is possibly the most rock'n'roll thing that the band are still doing.

The frisson of four young, scrappy lads from the suburbs playing old man delta blues has gone but in the end, it is the music that has lasted best. From Paint it Black to Sympathy for the Devil that simple formula of sleazy licks and hollering choruses instantly turned the linen-shirted men in the audience into rock gods and their wives into wanton groupies.

It couldn’t quite make the lame walk but it made them try, if only to feel a bit of the Stones old-fashioned magic for a moment.